Whack a Mole Memorial Day

 I am not much of a gardener, although my lovely wife seems to think that if I have enough tools, and spend copious amounts of times digging holes to plug plants in aforementioned holes, that as by some gift bestowed from Mother Earth herself, I will be magically transformed into a Gardener. I am stubbornly convinced that digging such holes through root snarled, and shrub strewn ground will only yield the results of a sore and aching back, and some dead plants. I probably should note here, in the interest of painting a fair picture (and mostly for matrimonial harmony) that I actually volunteer to perform these arcane tasks willingly. She encourages me to help her, but generally prefers me to keep my efforts to the lawn, which seems to appreciate my attention.

As a Lawn Boy extraordinaire, I can assure you that my loving ministrations to my roughly two acre sized lawn are not without result. I diligently cut my oh-so-cared for grass in a diamond pattern worthy of any Major League Baseball stadium. Sprinklers are generally running in a round robin of wet delight, and I carefully analyze the soil conditions to provide for the proper mix, and adequate amounts of fertilizer and weed control.  In short, I am a Grass Gawd. My lawn is my Kingdom, and my pride and joy. A few years ago, when our oldest was to be married, he and the soon to be missus decided that the field next door was to become their own Field of Dreams, and thus host the Reception. So son DJ contracted with a local orchard owner to plow and disc the field, and plant grass seed as well. Then it was my turn. I lavished water and attention and love on that field for three months. In the end, you could have walked across it barefoot, and been amazed at the velvety texture of the lush greenery underfoot.

Thus you can imagine my outrage when those varmints of villainy, those harbingers of doom, those malicious moles had the sheer affront to set up housekeeping in MY yard! How dare they! They mock the very principles that underlie the values and beliefs that make this the mighty and great nation it is today. In other words, it was my patriotic duty to exterminate the very last one of them.
Much like Karel Capek's War With the Newts, however, I am losing ground. Ever so steadily, oh so stealthily, those vermin of subterranean  dwelling have invaded my once proud lawns. Let me state this clearly and concisely, I hate those blighters!
The tools of the trade for relieving oneself of this particular tyranny are many and varied. Somehow, each claims to be the One And True Way To Get rid Of Moles. Really. Yeah.... right. The sonic disrupters just had them partying late at night, the gummi-poison worms were a nice dinner, and the anti grub stuff and the Diatomacrous Earth, that cost a fortune, only seemed to redouble their reproductive urges, like an Ecstasy fuelled rave.  So the ugly little blighters have shown no inclination to leave their dirty, grubby, Love Shack tunnels and migrate on to my neighbor's yard.

Just as I started to grow unconsolate in my despair, I remembered that today is Memorial Day.

Ah ha! Since our ever over achieving President is on vacation, surely he wouldn't mind if I borrowed a crack team of Anti Mole Terrorist Combatants? They could bring to bear all manner of Anti Mole Terrorist Technology! Surely they must have the means to extricate those beady eyed, long fanged, nocturnally dangerous evil doers of the underworld! Radar, Sonar, Lidar, M16's, tanks, submarines (obviously very tiny submarines, so they would have to be Autonomous Anti Mole Technology) and whatever ordnance was necessary. Yes sir, Mr. Mole, you have breathed your last in my good earth.